


Lúthien's Lost Silmaril [PWP]

by Silmarils (semit)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:17:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22010119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semit/pseuds/Silmarils
Summary: Luthien falls into Melkor's keep and pleasure ensues to satisfaction.
Relationships: Beren Erchamion/Lúthien Tinúviel, Lúthien Tinúviel/Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	Lúthien's Lost Silmaril [PWP]

Here in the stronghold of Angband, the lovers Lúthien Tinúviel and Beren passed unmolested and unnoticed. All around, weapons of death and glinting eyes of treacherous courtiers drilled into the fair Lúthien and her cherished one.

Such crystalline radiance of innocence flooded the squinting and scattering denizens of the Nethermost Hall as Lúthien and her lover cast their disguises aside. Before them on the darkest throne ringed in unholy fire, recognition flicked into Melkor’s thoughts as the Princess of Doriath bowed with a swan’s grace to the Vala.

“What brings you before my presence in a cloak of concealment? Speak your purpose and speak it plainly,” Melkor’s jaw set with a fierce, clawing malevolence.

Lúthien spoke in full candor to the Dark One. Foolish it would be to utter falsehoods to the King of Lies as he would unravel any plot with cruel expediency. “I seek a jewel from your brow, and I hunt it for my house,” she straightened from the bow.

Laughter played at Melkor’s response at her reckless errand, “Folly is your task of imprudence! To retrieve a Silmaril you say? Impossible!” and a smile of mirth pulled at his mouth. As though in thought, he tapped a pensive black claw on his chin while his blue eyes lit with unfathomably evil machinations. Always he had the upper hand, the will of thunder, the desire to corrupt all designs.

However, what she spoke next pried his thoughts away any deeper reflection, “Shall I dance for you?”

To this, a black eyebrow cocked in genuine wonder. For too long a pause, all of Angband buzzed in surprise and anticipation at their Master’s next words, “Dance?” Melkor’s tone oozed with amusement. Leaning back, he moved black clad limbs to the comfort of the armrests, “As you wish, girl.”

From some Maian power, a lilting music swirled in the Nethermost Hall by Lúthien’s will alone. Nearly tangible and glorious the melodies throbbed. This was not a pensive music, but instead laden with the beat of dance. As though compelled by the music, Lúthien’s body moved in time with the descants of the harmony.

Sensuously her form undulated as her hands lifted high above her head. This was a mid-tempo tune with an intertwining almost reed-like accompaniment as she twirled with exquisite grace. Diaphanous raiment wrapped tightly about her revealed little but clung to her breasts and waist. Continue she did, a beacon of delicate splendor against the oily evil of Angband, as dangerous eyes traced her form.

As though compelled by the grace of her lineage, Lúthien pursued her dance as the music increased in tempo and urgency, her eyes closing in a near trancelike slide. Indeed, her intent was to ensorcell or entrance those in her company, to drive them to slumber, to subdue the Dark One, the Mighty Arising, to chisel the Silmaril from his crown in triumph and appease her father with the gift.

One by one, the courtiers crumpled into a warm slumber unaware that they had lost consciousness. Balrogs, captains, orcs, soldiers, and slaves succumbed to the music and her spell of dance—each abandoning, if but for a time, their dark doom of existence. 

Even Beren, her dearest love, melted into the dozing oblivion of entranced sleep. Slowly then, her gray eyes opened before she nearly captured herself in her own rhythm, and her gaze scanned up the dark dais.

Empty! Melkor was absent from his dark throne.

A squeak was all that could jump from her throat as clawed hands traced about her from behind, the sharp tips of the Vala’s talons pressing through her thin clothing to nearly pierce her flesh.

Flooding realizations hammered into her mind’s eye with bitter clarity—her enchantment failed, and in sweet horror Melkor was at her side, the arms of the enemy wrapped around her in desire and vicelike strength.

“My lady,” Melkor breathed into her ear, “You seek to dance for me?” Then scanning her body, he conceived in his thought an evil lust, and a design darker than any that had yet come into his blackest heart.

Against her, he pressed his spiking yearning.

Although she did begin to struggle, what could come of such resistance. Her impeccably planned ruse had already collapsed in a hollow failure as she failed to place the Dark Vala into slumber. Such trembling gripped her in bottomless fear. There was no resistance now, only terror.

Gazing unseeing into the swirling flame that arched about the throne, the Vala’s pale hand traced from her waist to between her legs. This was not a move he made with haste. With agonizing and deliberate lingering he slid his hand, finally cupping the whole of her femininity.

At his sudden quickness, she gasped and her body tightened as in irony she pushed away from his hand only to drive her body against the full of his, “Since you came all this way to seek me out, and placed the whole of my kingdom to rest, you have given us privacy in the center of my Nethermost Hall,” the lust dripped from his hushed voice.

“Have mercy,” she breathed and instantly winced at the foolishness of such a request. 

“My mercy? Yes,” and he slid to embrace her from her front before urging her body against his own. “You may choose how you wish to have my mercy. You may have my mercy fighting against me, or with my affections.”

He gave her a choice. She shuddered as her fate crashed in her mind.

He would take her, this she knew as a near certainty, but she could have it as she clawed against him, or perhaps with less violence. The trembling did not abate with such proximity to the ultimate evil, and she could smell smoky fire on him, some sort of spice, and perhaps musk. He was not entirely as she expected, not ugly, but pale, black haired, and darkly alluring, but the malevolence that rolled off him was sickening. Such suffering at his hands, such wrongness—it repelled her.

A talon tipped finger brushed at her chin before lifting her face to his, and the suction of his kiss that immediately landed was such to draw breath from her lungs. She did not bite him, although she could. She did not kick him, or seek to injure his body, but nor did he. And his tongue was not forceful, but only sought pleasure from her mouth. They backed up the dais as their mouths met as he clearly led her to his throne.

As his hand kneaded between her legs her body responded to her horror and a slight moan escaped her finally. His touch was expert, far more practiced than Beren, who still lay slumbering amid the rabble of Angband.

His hands, glided along her slides and pushed aside the thin sheen of her bright dress. Quickly then Lúthien forced her thoughts deep—it was as though she looked down at herself, but was not in her body, as though she gazed upon a scene of which she was not a part. She saw a Dark Lord swirl his fingertips around her breasts in a spiraling motion, as the pink center grew taunt with the touch. She saw the black clad Vala suck at her mouth and urge his hips against her with lascivious urgency.

Quickly the dissociation whisked away, when with a sudden rush, he left her free of any garb and forced her to sit splayed on the throne. Gaze then he did at her widened legs with a lecherous leer. With some sort of sorcery his eyes glittered with dark power, and her body thrummed in pleasure. If he sought to further prepare her for his entry, or if he truly pursued her pleasure was not known. Still, the impact was ecstasy.

As she sat widened with a leg over each armrest, her thoughts homed in on her own anatomy. As though hyper aware of each fold of her body, her mind focused on the bud of her pleasure, how it grew larger in arousal. Like tendrils of power, her thoughts swirled as her clitoris pulsed in desire, how it urged to be touched, to be stroked slowly or with rapid abandon. It was then then she pushed open her legs wider and pressed her vulva higher as though it sought any touch from even the very fibers of Angband. And she knew that her body swelled with a river of desire.

Melkor smiled crookedly at her want.

She who sought to ensorcell him now lay trapped in a web of his power and a thrall of her own lust. With expediency, his hands deftly picked apart the leather of his belt before he swooped upon her in shameless rush of desire.

His cock, thus freed of its confines, bobbled loose as his longing to take the half-Maia clouded any reason that rattled in his corrupted mind. Hot lust focused in his loins in painful yearning as he pushed her legs even wider. Placing his cock at her readied opening, his icy eyes etched across her debauched form—her black hair wild and free, black fuzz between her legs, the pink of her pussy, the pink of her breasts, her mouth open in enchanted want.

And his hips thrust forward into her tight body. Pleasure flooded both Ainur and half-Ainur and each moaned in relief as ecstasy washed over both like a wave. She was so tight and could barely contain him nor could he dip his cock as deep as his dark heart desired, but the grip of her pussy on the head of his cock and the pull along the underside of his shaft was pure rapture. He dove at her throat like a predator to the jugular. 

He knew how to angle her body so her little pearl would glide along his length as he urged forward his pleasure. With each thrust her nib glided until she urged it further to drive up the ecstasy. This was not a dance of love, or of lovers, but a play of lustful enemies and passion.

Melkor gripped her body in a fervent embrace, pulling her fully up from the throne so that he pushed his cock into her while standing. A groan indicated the arrival of climax, and he moaned out his orgasm. 

Such a shift of position also quickened Lúthien’s pleasure as ecstasy pulsed deep within her. Her little pearl throbbed in rapture as thick pulses quivered her entire being. Her hips, driven by his orgasm inside her, pressed into his as wave after wave of wet vibrations pounded her sex. Then, she finally moaned in ultimate pleasure and release as she spread her legs even wider in shameless lust. Her sex throbbed from her core and she pushed her hips up at the height of shuddering pleasure as she orgasmed in hot beats.

Breathless then, he brushed his lips across hers dryly as they recovered from the cliff of ecstasy.

Her eyes were still glazed but widened at the horror of full cognition of her lover—Morgoth, the Dark Ainur, and bringer of death. Still with the vestiges of her pleasure still pulsing in her loins, she recoiled away from her enemy, scooped up her gauzelike garb in shuddering terror, and raced to an awakening Beren.

Sighs of rising consciousness echoed about as Angband groaned in rising consciousness. 

“Go in shame, Princess of Doriath. For in shame you shall stay,” the Dark Vala mocked. Lúthien fled, unharmed, and sans Silmaril, and pledged her revenge.

In years to come, when her father finally permitted her marriage to Beren, she thought not of him on her wedding night, but of her passion with the Dark One, her failed quest, and sweet lust fulfilled.


End file.
